


Straight from the Crate

by demonfox38



Series: DLC from DF38 [18]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Gravel Wars, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: Life is like a random crate. You don't know what you're going to get when you crack it open, but it's 90% going to be garbage you didn't need and a hat you didn't want. (A prompt collection harvested from my Tumblr account)
Series: DLC from DF38 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677937
Kudos: 9





	1. Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> This first prompt came from Mesheme on Tumblr. It was posted on December 10th, 2012.

The Demoman spat his last wisdom tooth onto the floor. He grabbed for his handkerchief. His pockets were barren. He growled, then expelled the bloody contents of his nose and mouth. The other man—his former rival and enemy—did the same. Both men were black and blue from bruises. The Soldier’s left eye was swelled shut. Looking at it made the Demoman’s eye water.

“Are ye done?” the Demoman asked.

The Soldier grumbled. “You’re a cross-dressing Englishman, and your mother has the worst cooking I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

“Yeah, well yer grandmother’s a tea-totallen’ Tory! And dead! Probably,” the Demoman replied.

“Don’t you talk about Memaw that way!” the Soldier roared.

The Demoman shot back, “Then you stop talkin’ ‘bout my mother!”

Both men opened their mouths to fight once more, but they stopped. There was a heavy sigh shared between them. The Soldier snuffled, then drew a hanky from his pocket. He mopped up the blood trailing from the Demoman’s nose. The Scotsman lowered his gaze, letting the American clean him. He snatched the beanie from his head, then crumpled it in his hands.

“I just want to go back to the way it was,” the Demoman said.

The Soldier hesitated. “It would nice to have a truce. Friendship…that will take some time.”

The Demoman’s shoulders slumped. “I just thought that with the Gravel War done ‘n gone, we could go back to the way it was. With beer and that dumb sport ya call football.”

The Soldier agreed. “I know.”

“It’s not even proper football,” the Demoman grumbled. “Ya don’t even kick the damn ball.”

That brought a small laugh from the Soldier. “I know.”

The two stood together, ashamed of what they had let happen to them. Raising his right hand, the Demoman patted the Soldier’s shoulder. The Soldier tried his best to hold a serious face, but the gesture had got him right in the heart. Neither had the guts to apologize to the other. Half a decade of killing each other was hard to make up for.

It was a hard pill for both of them to swallow.


	2. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested by lilytherosedreamer on December 10th, 2012 on Tumblr.

So, that was it.

The team sat just out of range of the crashing fortress. Barns were swathed with a veil of orange and white fire. A tower creaked, then wobbled. What used to be the Sniper’s favorite roost crashed into the tiny canal that ran between the two bases. There was a pop as the Demoman’s cache of explosives caught fire. They detonated, sending a whole hunk of rooftop airborne. Everything rumbled and crumpled, decades of accumulated reels and knowledge going up in smoke.

It was the end of the bases at Teufort.

The Pyro couldn’t be blamed for this. The base had been comprised. It had to go. It was only through teamwork that any of them got out of the location alive. The bruises, burns, and bullet wounds were too fresh on each of them to go much further. The Medic was doting on the Scout, who had taken a collapsed rafter to the skull. The Heavy had dislodged him, only to be shot in the shoulder. In turn, the Russian only survived because the Sniper was able to slow the hoard nipping at his feet. One story of heroism followed another. The Engineer saved by the Soldier from exploding, walking bombs. The Sniper spared by the Pyro, both now coated in soot and embers. The Demoman catching the Medic as the German leapt out of a window. On and on it went.

It had all started here. They had all come together as strangers and opened fire for the first time in this little hunk of desert. The Spy had begun his reign as the go-to infiltrator, the man required to disable the most dangerous of threats. Now, with the crumbling base falling under the wheels of a new threat, the Spy felt his identity stripped from him. Here, he had become a new man. Something stronger, faster. For the first time in years, he had been fidelitous to something greater than his own instincts and needs. He had been a part of a battalion.

Watching the cradle of his new world die burned in his eyes. It was easier to lie and say the pain that brought tears to his eyes was just so much ash in the wind.


	3. Busted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on April 3rd, 2013 by Jealoussin from Tumblr. The request was for the Demoman and the Spy to work together on a mission.

The door slid back ever so carefully. It squealed as rusted joints ground against each other. The Spy’s face contorted. Had someone more intelligent guards been paying attention, the whole operation would have been blown. As it was, only heaps of metallic scrap and cut cameras were left to protect this junkyard. Never-the-less, he wasn’t about to take any risks. He had to operate carefully.

The Demoman was not as concerned. “Oy! Would ya just open the door?”

“Quiet, you fool!” the Spy hissed through his teeth. “Zhere may be someone inside.”

“What, like the last twenty tin cans we junked? Ain’t nothin’,” the Demoman replied.

The Spy shook his head. “Be zhat as it may.”

Tossing the door back, both the Demoman and the Spy went silent. This last room was a nest of contradictions. It was pitch black and bright. Piles of sheet metal and gears were thrown against the sides of gray desks. Computer monitors were still on, screens flickering blue and white in the void.

Their meager light illuminated the target towards the back of the laboratory. It gleamed, freshly polished. Not a speck of decay to be found on it. The machine stood five or six times the Demoman’s height. It was loaded. At least two massive turrets on its arms were powered down. A rectangular compartment crammed with missiles was opened and exposed to the cold air. Large supporting legs ended in clawed, splayed feet. Its heart—the cockpit in its center—was black.

“That’s a right lass, isn’t she?” the Demoman murmured.

“Our mutual toymaker would agree wizh your sentiments.” The Spy was not nearly as awed by the machine. “Come, now. Time to do your work.”

The Demoman bobbed his head. “Right, right. Leave the heavy liftin’ to the real man. I see how it is.”

The key to any demolition was to put the least amount of bombs in the most critical points. Like, cracks or supports or any loose joint. The Demoman drew his sticky launcher and contemplated his target. Perhaps a couple at the knee joints would be a good start. He threw a few there, then a couple more just above the turrets. He tossed one square on the glossy cockpit for the machine, just out of spite.

He would have clicked the detonation button, had the lab not gone suddenly white.

The Demoman and the Spy threw their arms over their three good eyes. A shrill cackle sent chills running down their spines. The Demoman slammed on the detonator, not daring to waste his laid bombs. Explosions popped all over the machine. All he managed to do was chip the robot’s paint. Both men turned their attention to the cockpit. What had once appeared to be an empty chair was now properly lit, revealing a cackling, wrinkled sack of a man.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” the mad scientist snickered. “Did you want to play with my toys?”


	4. Chained Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested by long-time buddy JeannetteGray on February 23rd, 2013 over on Tumblr. I suspect that I still owe her a Sniper and Spy version of this theme.

He lowered his hands, then his bloody knuckles. Stupid. He knew he was being stupid. The RED Heavy was a strong man, no doubt. The strongest of his team. Here he was, behind bars, his team decimated and his knuckles battered. His head dropped under the burden of failure. Where had they gone? Had they been snatched up, too? He couldn’t stand the thought of any of them being locked up like he was. He hoped they had gotten away.

“You’ll never get out like that, Ruskie.”

The Heavy snorted. That obnoxious, over-confident voice came from the next cell over. The BLU Soldier was leaned against the right side of his cage. The Heavy wanted to poke his fingers through the cell walls and push the Soldier away. He could be patient and tolerant only so long. The American knew which of his nerves to jump on, and the Heavy wasn’t going to let him do it.

“What plan do you have, hmm?” the Heavy asked. “Perhaps dig hole out of cell?”

The Soldier crinkled his nose. “If those bastard robots would have let me keep my shovel, then yes.”

The Heavy shook his head. “Is stupid. Impossible.”

“Well, we’re not going to escape with that attitude,” the Soldier replied.

“Escape? Ha!” the Heavy laughed. “No. Will get caught again. Will not do.”

The Soldier crossed his arms. “Don’t tell me you intend to sit here and rot.”

The Heavy disagreed. “Nyet. Pointless. If we do not stop little stick man now, he will catch us again. So, that is what we must do.”

“Ah! A little tactical assassination? I like that idea,” the Soldier grinned. “Just let me take care of the jailbreak.”

With that, the Soldier balled up his fists. He aimed his right one at his own face. There was a sharp crack as he broke his nose. He threw himself onto the ground, smearing blood over his blue clothing. The Heavy lifted an eyebrow. Was the man drunk or just that insane?

“This is the part where you call the guards,” the Soldier whispered. “Geez. Haven’t you ever done the sick man routine?”

The Heavy bobbed his head once. He inhaled deeply, then bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Help! Stupid man is down!”

Twenty seconds and two destroyed robots later, the duo was free.


	5. Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous Tumblr individual requested a Detective AU with Miss Pauling and the Sniper on March 31st, 2013.

It was the third jewelry store that had been robbed that week.

Much like the preceding thefts, there wasn’t so much as a smear of a fingerprint to be found on the shattered glass casings. No hair, either. Of course, there had been prints and dander found behind the cash registers. They had been emptied the night before, however, and no attempts had been made to crack into them. Stranger yet were the remnants of the jewelry that remained in the store. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, amethysts—all scattered across the demolished showroom. No settings.

No diamonds, either.

Detective Pauling shifted through the glass. “I don’t get it.”

“What’s to get?” The pacing private investigator behind her drawled in his low voice. “Blokes come in here, smash the place up. Loot the diamonds, head out. Seems like simple behavior to me.”

Detective Pauling shook her head. “It’s not that easy, Mister Mundy. When criminals steal items, they resell them for the cash. Pawn shops, second-hand stores. There’s been no rise in jewelry sales in the city. Certainly not in diamonds.”

Mister Mundy scratched his chin. “Hmm. A fella can’t wear that many chains, either.” He cocked his head, then looked at the ground. “Doubt he can wear shoes like that, either.”

Detective Pauling glanced down. No shoe prints had been left behind. However, there were distinct tracts on the ground. It was as if a pack of people had ridden unicycles through the shop. That made no sense. Not even a confident criminal would be that mad.

No human, for that matter.

“Wait a moment,” Detective Pauling stopped. “Gold and diamonds?”

Mister Mundy nodded. “Spot on.”

“Diamonds are used for more than just jewelry. Think about it.” Detective Pauling mused. “I’ve seen all sorts of diamond-tipped tools for sale. They make for more durable, sharper products.”

Mister Mundy bobbed his head. “Roight. And?”

The detective continued rambling. “And gold—gold is a soft, conductive metal. It’s often used for electronics.”

“Oh!” The wheels in the private eye’s head began to turn. He fished a newspaper article out of his vest. “Gold for brains, diamond for brawn—I think I get at what you’re saying, love!”

Detective Pauling raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

Mister Mundy flipped the newspaper page over, showing its contents to Detective Pauling. There, front and center, was an elderly man hunched over the body of a stilled contraption. It was lying down on its front, its back pulled open, wires strewn everywhere. To the back of the machine was its support and locomotion—a single, solitary wheel.

“Mister Gray Mann, hmm?” Detective Pauling smirked. “Great start. I’ll go get a warrant.”

Mister Mundy beamed. “Roight. While you do that, I’ll go rustle him up.”

“You can’t do that! You’ll blow our element of surprise!” Detective Pauling barked.

“What? Ya gonna stop me?” Mister Mundy asked.

A quick flip on the counter and an uncomfortable ride to headquarters with his hands cuffed behind his back slowed the private eye down.


	6. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another request from Tumblr on December 10, 2012. This one came from Deedeenyan.
> 
> Apparently, I was a busy little bee that day!

Yo, Miss P!

I saw your SWF ad in the paper. Funny thing. I was just reading the paper myself, you know. Catching up on the current events and whatever. Gotta be watching what the world’s doing, right? Not that I was looking for anything. Like obituaries or responses to ads or something.

Anyway! You been listening to the Chordettes or something lately? Let me tell ya, dollface! Mister Sandman’s come, and he’s gonna send ya a dream!

Look, hey, I know. Ya need to be sold on the deal. Can do! You’ve work long hours? So do I! You’ve gotta keep your trap shut? I can totally do that. Man, I haven’t told anyone nothing about no one. Not even the one time I saw the Heavy bare ass naked in the shower. Do you know he’s got a birthmark back there? I didn’t know that! Now, I can’t forget about it! Ugh! Need more women in my life.

But, hey. Let me tell you about what you want to know the most about me—my smoking body. Not that I smoke. Can’t have cigs in my line of duty. But baby, I am just about six feet of Adonis. Totally. Except for the wiener. My wiener? Puts all of those Greek statues to shame. Especially the ones that ain’t got no wiener ‘cause someone knocked it off. I am a hundred and twenty pounds of muscle. Blue eyes, too. Can’t go wrong with that. And my hair? Don’t call it dishwater, baby. It’s pure gold!

So, you wanna know about what we’d do on a date, right? Outside of the obvious thing, of course. You’ve got it! I’m an athletic dude, so I can do anything you want! Roller skating? Ice skating? Shooting? Not with skates, though. Baseball? Basketball? Lifting weights? Swimming? I can do all of those things. Hell, I can even do some of them without my pants. But if ya wanna take it easy or whatever, we could always go to the movies. Maybe even the local Italian place. Love it there! And I swear, my mom won’t bug us or nothing! Don’t have to worry about some lady spying on us.

Sold on the deal? Give me a call, babe. 555-1103.

Or better yet, just go down the hall and to the left. You know the room.


	7. Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came from JeannetteGray's TF2Chan persona on December 15th, 2012. The request was for something involving either Faith or Fear with a cross-faction Sniper and Spy match.

The sharp, familiar sting of shrapnel went through the Spy’s thigh.

Decoy had not lasted long. It was built as a temporary diversion against Gray Mann’s force, but it hadn’t taken long to fall. The robot’s bomb set the entire front of their barracks alight with fire. Splinters peppered the doors to their supply rooms. There were half a dozen thick squelches as the sky rained dead body parts. Robot pieces followed in turn.

And, of course, a shard of metal.

The Spy lay on his good thigh, trying to stop the blood coming from his leg. If he could wriggle his way to the front door, he could patch himself up. Hell, even the med pack left just in front of the base would do. There was no point in trying to stand. Even the slightest shifting of his weight to his injured leg sent hot fire through his nerves. He hissed as he started a slow squirm towards the first aid kit. Like always, he had to take care of himself. No one else would.

After all, he was alone. Wasn’t he?

He was wrong about that deduction. As he moved towards the pack, something snatched him up by his arms. He made an undignified cry. Thrashing back, he tried to headbutt whoever picked him up. His support growled. “Crikey! Blasted Spy! See if I help you again!”

An involuntary shudder went down the Spy’s spine. It was the Sniper, but not his team’s. The wrong color sent false alarms throughout his body. The Spy hissed, “Where are my teammates?”

“Probably rainin’ down on you,” his rival grumbled. “Bloody bastards ripped us a new one. Goddammit.”

The Spy shivered in the hot sun. He was alone with the man he killed for five years. His teammates were a county away, if respawn caught them. It wouldn’t take much for the Sniper to snap his neck and spit on his corpse. He knew the man hated him. He didn’t blame him, either. War was war, and lives weren’t its only casualty.

The Sniper threw one of the Spy’s arms over his shoulder. “C’mon. Hop with me.”

“What?” the Spy asked.

“Can’t leave ya lyin’ here. Let’s get you patched up,” the Sniper explained.

Passively, the Spy let the Sniper carry his weight. The duo walked to the kit, just a few meters away from the ashen hole in the ground. The Spy sat down as the Sniper tore the kit open. He produced a pair of forceps. The Australian clamped onto the debris, then yanked it out of the Spy’s leg. Blood ebbed out as the Spy let loose with a yelp.

Something cold ran down his skin. The Spy glanced at his wound. His enemy was rubbing medical gel into his thigh. Calloused fingertips were gentle, reassuring as they worked. There was a soft sound as the Sniper unrolled a long bandage. He put one end just above the Spy’s leg, then wound it down. He bit into the tape, his sharp teeth cutting it into a jagged strip. With a little fussing, he finished securing the bandage.

“Not perfect, but it’ll hold ya until we can find yer Medic,” the Sniper said. He offered a hand to the Spy. “C’mon. My van’s not too far off.”

The Spy was flabbergasted. His enemy had saved his life. One word managed to escape him before he could clam it up. “Why?”

“Why not?” the Sniper replied. He hesitated, then fussed with his hair. “We

we’ve gotta work together, right?”

“For now, I suppose,” the Spy agreed.

The Sniper nodded. “That’s that, then. Ya won’t stab me if I’m a mate, and I won’t shoot you. So, d’ya trust me?”

The Spy frowned. There was truth to that statement. He nodded. “And you?”

“I wouldn’t be takin’ ya to my van if I didn’t,” the Sniper replied.

The Spy snorted, chuckling to himself. Their enmity had taken a strange turn.


	8. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another December 10th, 2012 entry from Tumblr. This request came anonymously.

He ran out of floorboards.

The Sniper stumbled, arms swinging as he caught his balance. The wall behind him was gone. It was crumbled several meters down, fire consuming its mass. In front of him was a greater threat. A knife was drawn upon his sternum, the blade slicing through cotton fabric like paper. It did not plunge into his chest. Rather, it was held there, like a sharp taunt.

“C’mon, mate. Now’s not the time to be holding grudges,” the Sniper murmured.

His assailant countered with a punch to his solar plexus. The Sniper collapsed, his breath gone. A well-crafted leather shoe replaced the threat of the knife. It stood upon his chest, the heel digging into the flesh just below his ribs. The other stomped next to his side, pinning his vest and shirt beneath it.

His attacker leaned in, digging into the Sniper’s body as he leered. “Say it, Bushman.”

The Sniper coughed. “Need—breathe—first—Spy—”

Fire bloomed in his enemy’s eyes. The Spy’s nostrils flared. With one short move, he stabbed into the Sniper’s right shoulder. There was a sharp, painful cry from the Australian. It wasn’t loud enough to cover the Spy’s demands. “Admit it! Now!”

The Sniper nodded. “You’re good.”

He bucked his legs. The knife drove deeper into his shoulder, the Spy’s foot squashing his skin. The force of the motion flung the Spy off the Sniper. His body spun ninety degrees to the left—straight off the wooden platform. There was a shriek as the Frenchman fell into the inferno raging below them. The Sniper didn’t look behind him. He crawled onto his knees, hacking and coughing from his injuries and the smoke.

“I’m better,” he smirked.

His victory was short-lived as the floorboards beneath him finally collapsed. Fingers clung onto the splintered edge as he dropped. He couldn’t hold on. His right arm was numb from the wound, and his left hand couldn’t support his weight forever. Sweaty fingers slipped from the edge, dropping him closer and closer to his death.

As the last of his digits slipped from the edge, a meaty hand caught his wrist.


	9. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the notorious December 10th, 2012, we have a Tumblr prompt from CosmicTuesdays.

“D’ya even know how to fly that thing?” the Engineer asked.

It was the wrong question to the wrong man. The Soldier snapped about on his heels. With one sharp digit, he began retorting the Engineer. “What kind of sissy girl’s dormitory did you live in when you went to college? While you were busy cuddling with Socrates, I was killing Nazis! I drove every damn vehicle I got my hands on—Fokkers, Panzers, Lancers, Prancers, Comets, Cupids—”

The Engineer cut the Soldier’s tirade short. “But what about that?”

The Soldier gave the strange vehicle a cock-eyed glance. It was large, certainly. Much bigger than anything he’d ever had to commandeer. An entire fleet could be carried around in the plane’s belly. With eight propellers and a wingspan several hundred feet long, it could make mincemeat out of any flock that passed through it. For such a heavy bird, it was light on anti-aircraft defense measures. Worse came to worse, though, they could just stick a sentry or the Heavy out a window and let them take care of passers-by.

“I could give it a shot,” the Soldier shrugged.

The Engineer sighed. “Alrighty. Let’s get this goose loaded up.”

The Soldier’s eyes gleamed with delight.


	10. Food Porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a slightly fresher Tumblr prompt from CosmicTuesdays, originally posted on February 21st, 2013.

Seven layers.

Seven goddamn layers.

The men around the table stared, not quite sure what they were looking at. Some sort of gelatin, no doubt. Or, rather, several layers of some kind of gelatin. It was shaped like an elegant wreath, formed in some extravagant Bundt cake pan. Each layer glistened. Little fruits floated in the gelatin, round cherries and soft oranges held captive. A generous dollop of whipped cream was dropped through the center of it. Stiff peaks curled back and reached for the ceiling.

“You made that?” the Soldier asked.

The Scout nodded. “Yep.”

The Engineer shook his head in disbelief. “Son, I haven’t seen you make so much as an ice cube. And you put that together?”

“What’s so hard about it?” The Scout shrugged his shoulders. “Mix a layer, put it in the fridge. Mix another layer, put it in the fridge. Mix another layer—”

The Sniper rubbed his face. “We get the point.”

“It might not be hard to make, but it sure took a lot of time. I’m surprised you made it,” the Engineer said.

The Scout crossed his arms and grinned. “Eh, no big deal. My ma gave me the recipe. Figure it’s kinda perfect, actually. No fat for the fattie, no cholesterol, low sodium, vegetarian—”

“It’s not vegetarian,” the Sniper interrupted.

“What?” The Scout appeared to be genuinely shocked. “Ain’t got no meat in it. Just fruit ‘n sugar ‘n water ‘n stuff.”

The Soldier laughed. “Son, what do you think Jell-O comes from? I’ll give you a hint—you throw its juice all over the battlefield.”

The Scout’s face dropped. “Ah, crap.”


	11. Presumed Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also from February 21st, 2013 comes PostmortemTsarina's Tumblr prompt!

There were some men the Devil flat out refused to take. Not that they didn’t deserve a good eternity or two of damnation and suffering, but they were simply too ambitious. It was one thing to give a well-intentioned extremist a whip and let him beat himself in limbo. Truly evil men? They did what they did in life—schemed their way to the top. Emperors, generals, and CEOs were the worst of the lot. That was always why he begrudged taking them. 

On occasion, he threw a few back on Earth just to let God sort them out again.

At least, that was what the first old bastard believed as he woke up. Certainly, the Devil wouldn’t toy with him—he was emperor, general, and CEO diabolical. That would explain the perpetual void he experienced every time he died. If old age hadn’t maddened him, the darkness did. His skin was leathery and paper dry. Bones cracked as he shifted in his chair. The stench of death was on him again. Either that, or his colon had failed once more. That was the problem with a portable revival machine. It fixed up a lot of problems, but it didn’t clean up what his body had decided to release in his death throes.

The decrepit man growled. His brother—well, the dead one—was alive. “Son of a bitch!”

“You old sack of crap!” his brother replied. “Goddammit, what did you eat before you were carved like a Christmas ham?”

If Blutarch could stand up, he would have reached across and slapped Redmond in the face. “Probably not the entire cabbage patch you ate before you evacuated your bowels, you foul, liver-spotted, self-absorbed—”

“Gentlemen?”

Both Redmond and Blutarch snapped their heads to the new speaker. Redmond shouted, “Who in the hell—oh. Right.”

“What the hell do you want, Gray?” Blutarch grumbled. “I’d rather spend the rest of eternity in a vacuum than see your wrinkled, sniveling, cowardly face again.”

“As I yours, dear brothers. But, you see, I have had a change of heart,” Gray answered. He folded his hands behind his back, his grin slim but wide set.

Redmond raised what little of an eyebrow he had left. “Reconsidering my proposal on turning gravel into coal?”

Gray growled. “If I was going to engage in alchemy—never mind. This is a stupid argument.”

“Oh. Well, then. Just put me under again,” Redmond said.

Blutarch narrowed his gaze. “Let’s hear the old fool out. At the very least, I could use a last laugh.”

Gray’s expression lifted. “Ah, there we go. You see, my dear brothers, it has to do with those meddlesome little teams you’ve created. They’ve proven to be a bit more troublesome to deal with than I had initially planned.”

“So? What the hell are we supposed to do about them?” Redmond asked.

Gray held his smirk. “I doubt a simple termination of their contracts will do. No, my brothers. We will have to do something a little more devious

Unless you want freeloaders living off our mutual mother and father’s legacy.”

“No! No handouts!” Blutarch slammed his fist into his chair. “How the hell are we supposed to keep alive for the rest of time if we keep throwing money at Redmond’s ineffectual buffoons?”

Redmond nodded in agreement. “Or Blutarch’s limp-wristed sissies?”

“Gentlemen, we take them down like we kill snakes.” Gray presented both men with a monochrome, worn photo of a snarling, sinister woman. “We cut off the head.”


	12. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rampage of December 10th, 2012 continued onto December 11th. An anonymous user made this request on Tumblr.

The Scout’s stomach dropped when his pistol’s hammer clicked. He glanced down, his mouth agape. Out of ammo. Snarling, he snapped his head up. A cold, wide grin glistened in the low lights, teeth slick with saliva. There was a clack as his enemy loaded his shotgun. The fiend pressed the twin barrels against his forehead.

“If I were you, boy, I’d run,” the Engineer sneered. “I’ll even give ya a head start.”

The Scout grunted in frustration. What, was that lunatic toying with him? Like he was some rabbit he’d caught in his garden? It was insulting. He threw a glance around the Engineer’s body. He could smell the intelligence, old paper and tangy metal in the back of his sinuses. Geez, it was just there! If only he could—

A slow drawl interrupted his thoughts. “Five.”

Calculations buzzed in the Scout’s head. He could make it to the door if he scuttled backwards in maybe three seconds, but—

“Four.”

It was right there! The whole damn team depended on him to get it!

“Three.”

He began to regret his thoughts.

“Two.”

The Scout ran forward, bowling over the Engineer with a kick to his torso.


	13. Serenity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cosplaycraze-blog on Tumblr asked for this particular prompt on December 13th, 2012.

Some may have been overwhelmed with the menagerie that sat about their barracks. They would swarm any unattended foodstuff and burrowed into anything soft and warm. Discarded clothing, clean towels, open incisions—anything. They sat atop electrical wires and poles, spying on the world with beady black eyes. The base should have been slopped over with bird droppings and nests. That there was any cleanliness at all had to do with the Medic’s meticulous care of the flock.

Every morning and evening were the same. The Medic would go out, burlap sack in hand, and spread birdseed in winding paths. One by one, they would crowd about his feet. He would be sure to find a seat or bring a chair when he fed them. He took notes on the condition of each bird. Some came back. Some didn’t. On a good day, it was because his missing friends had brought more joy into the world. On a bad day, he would have to summon the Soldier and bury a good companion.

There was peace in maintaining the flock. They gave him time that he didn’t often comprehend. He would see them change and grow, learning new abilities and acquiring new traits as they aged. They had soft coos and quiet moments. A bold one would hop into his lap, allowing the human to pet and preen them. Sometimes onto his feet and shoulders, too. Other times, they sat on a nearby object.

They particularly liked to roost on the Heavy’s shoulders.

It was nice to dote on and observe creatures that weren’t shrieking at him or bleeding out.


	14. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you think we were done with December 10th, 2012? Because that day will now live in infamy. Oh, and an anonymous Tumblr user asked for this.

There was a stranger in his infirmary.

The Medic stood upright, plopping a fresh kidney back into the comatose Scout on the gurney. He didn’t often need to put his patients under, but with the Scout’s motor mouth never stopping, he found it to be more relaxing just to give him nitrous oxide and knock him out. Now, with a strange scent and footsteps echoing in his infirmary, he felt uneasy. If it were an enemy, wouldn’t his doves have attacked him? Where were they, anyway? They loved watching him operate.

Reaching for the blood-splattered bonesaw on his surgical tool tray, the Medic put his back to his patient. “I vould recommend showing yourself before I have to break zhe Hippocratic Oath over your bones a few times.”

There was a clatter. Footsteps echoed, growing louder and coming faster together. Something was rushing at him. The Medic side-stepped the sound. His invisible assailant slammed into the gurney. Not so hard to tip it over, but just enough to emit a dull thunk. The Medic stabbed at the source of the sound. His bonesaw hit the mat on the gurney, drawing cotton fluff.

A thick object wound its way around the Medic’s neck. It pulled the Medic backwards, onto the tips of his toes. He kicked as he fought against the chokehold. All he could see below his feet were two shadows. His assailant’s shade engulfed his shadow.

There was a hot gushing on the Medic’s shoulder. He turned his head and gasped. Blood was oozing from a stump that used to be his neck. The Medic went ghost-white, wondering in horror and fascination how this was happening. Science? Necromancy? Some ghastly combination of the two?

The stump gurgled at him. Even with no voice to speak, the Medic knew what the assailant wanted. 

It was looking for the head sitting and smoking in his freezer.


	15. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 10th, 2012. Anonymous. Tumblr. 
> 
> Those details keep linking together...but why?

The Engineer was pissed, though he didn’t have a reason why. A dull throbbing was building at the top of his head. Had he drank too much coffee? Not enough? The pencil in his hand snapped at the head as he pressed it to his blueprints. He growled, then grabbed for his sharpener. The wood of the pencil fell out in fine ribbons as he twisted it. There was another crunch as the lead broke off in the sharpener. In a fit, he threw both the pencil and the sharpener aside. They landed with a clunk in his waste bin.

“Dagnabbit,” he swore. “What’s wrong with me?”

As a calculating, mathematical person, the Engineer was one who always had to have every little thing in its own place. If something went awry, he would lose his temper. He ran down an internal checklist. He’d had supper and a fresh cup of coffee. The lights were all on. The door to his workshop was closed. All of his writing utensils were present, save for the one in the trash can. His calculator was operational. His compasses were aligned, his rulers sharp and accurate. Why couldn’t he work?

The Engineer swiveled his chair to the right. He addressed a short sentry guarding his door. “What am I missin’?”

The sentry answered him to the best of its abilities—with a single beep.

The Engineer sighed. What was his problem? He spun around, letting his chair turn as he thought to himself. Was he being watched? Well, other than by the Administrator? He didn’t smell tobacco or fancy perfume. There probably weren’t any nefarious French secret agents around. The chair stopped completely opposite of his desk. He stared at the wall behind him.

There was an old beaten couch pushed against it. It had been a rather nice leather sofa, in its time. Now, it was patched together with duct tape and will power. Green and orange pillows were thrown around it. The colors were putrid, just downright unpleasant shades. He cocked his head to the side. Who put those there?

He sat upright. Now he knew what he was missing. There was always some voice at his back when he worked. Someone talking about something. The Scout would ramble on about baseball cards, the Soldier his reflections on the day’s performance, the Pyro’s—whatever the Pyro thought of. Someone was always there. Talking or boasting or sleeping or—

The Engineer shook his head. Why was it so quiet in the base? Where was everyone tonight?


	16. Sobriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Anonymous buddy from Tumblr came back on April 4th, 2013 to request a story about the Demoman coaching the Scout. This is how close I got.

The Demoman scowled. His locker had been raided. For any other person, there would be concerns about whether or not someone had taken their wallet or clothes. For the Demoman? It was a different sort of problem. Sure, his uniform was left in place, and his grenades were mostly accounted for. There were two critical items missing from his locker. One item was a century’s old jug of alcohol. The other was his nine-iron.

Whoever had taken them must have been planning to have a hell of a round of golf.

Scratching his scruffy chin, the Demoman pondered the theft. No one was planning on melting his items down for scrap, were they? Did they really want that booze so badly? It wasn’t really that great. The Badlands was no place to go golfing, either. The entire territory was a sand trap. What was the plan? Hell, what was the logic?

The Demoman strolled out of the locker room as he continued contemplating the puzzle. So he couldn’t think of a clear motive. Maybe he could see someone walking off with his scrumpy. Just maybe. But the golf club issue sat in his head. What good could it do anyone? Hell, who even knew how to play golf? The Soldier, perhaps. Maybe the Pyro. The Heavy and Medic didn’t seem like culprits for that sort of theft. If the weapon had been a cricket bat, maybe the Sniper would have taken it. The Engineer didn’t spend too much time playing recreational sports, and the Demoman was certain the Spy didn’t want to break a sweat by playing some silly ball game.

He didn’t have to think about it too long. The answer presented itself just behind the cracked door of the front room.

A skinny man with a lampshade on his head was sprawled out on the couch. Strange choice for a hat, but the Demoman had seen worse. The Soldier was seated next to him, the pilfered jug of booze by his left foot. The Demoman’s golf club was upright in the skinny man’s hand, its head resting in his closed grasp. Both men’s faces were completely red. The Scout’s head was tipped back as he tried to keep the world from spinning. The Soldier wasn’t fairing much better. He had his head pressed into his open palms.

“And just what do you two think you’re doin’?” the Demoman asked.

The Soldier jerked upright. His foot knocked the jar of scrumpy onto the Scout’s feet. The young man growled as lukewarm alcohol flooded his shoes. The Soldier paid no attention to that. He was standing stiff and straight, one hand resting on his sideways helmet as he saluted the Demoman. “Status report, sir! We have liberated supplies from the enemy combatants and consumed them in celebration of my private’s birthday.”

“Ah, geez,” the Scout whined. “Don’t call me that. Sounds gross.”

“All you raided was me locker!” the Demoman growled. “And don’t get started on that waste of fine scrumpy you’re pourin’ down your mate’s shoes!”

The Soldier shook his head. “Negative. Look behind you.”

The Demoman did. Next to the overflowing trash bin was a pile of scrumpy bottles. Most of them were intact, but a few were shattered inside the can. Even for a heavy drinker like the Demoman, the sight was appalling. The stench of alcohol stuck to the walls. There was another foul smell, though he didn’t dare identify what that was.

“Well. I’ll be damned,” the Demoman mused.

“Great. Now, could you go away? My head’s achin’,” the Scout grumbled. “And my stomach feels like I drank some glass.”

The Demoman tipped his head. “You sure you’re alright, lad? Maybe we should have the doc pump your stomach.”

The Soldier smirked. “We don’t need any stinking medical nurses in here! We are men, and we’re celebrating manhood and reaching it!”

The Scout scowled. “I’m twenty-six, ya jerk.”

“It takes some of us longer than others,” the Soldier answered without skipping a beat. He then belched. The foul odor matched the one emanating from the trash bin.

The Demoman couldn’t believe it. He never thought he’d be in this position. With a heavy sigh, he walked towards the Soldier and the Scout. He grabbed both of them by the back of their collars. Neither man had any strength to fight him, but both of their mouths went into overtime as he dragged them out of the room. He paid them no heed. He knew what a couple of drunks like these two needed.

A cold shower sobered the partiers up in a heartbeat.


	17. Untitled Drug-Induced Sniper Torture Prompt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Tumblr request came from a previous account of Voynichs on February 21st, 2013. It was requested to be made a rebloggable fic, where it came to have the name above.

An undignified, guttural howl escaped him.

The Sniper’s body gave an uncontrolled shudder. He was helpless against it. Rubber fingers were in his eyes. A light more intense than the burning sun bored holes in his head. His brain crumbled under its acidic rays. Gone was any higher intelligence. He had to get away—to bite, to claw, to scream and slash and kill. He pulled his fists up. They caught against locked leather straps. His feet were bound as well, his soles cold with his sweat.

There was a cold slap against his face. The Sniper gnashed his teeth at fingers too close to his lips. They were swollen, like rubber balloons. He couldn’t focus his eyes. Movements left trails of colored vapor. He was locked in darkness while ghosts reached towards him. Was it the enemy Medic? What had he done? Blood bubbled down the side of his face. It caught on his stubble, mixed with foam and spittle. He was hurt. The other team…they must have—

An unearthly warble bounced around the Sniper’s head. He craned his neck to the right. A little gremlin. He yelped as fingers snatched his vest. The monster thrashed him around. It yelled at him in graveled tones. He sank into its grasp, frothing as he tried to speak. His tongue was like a thick, dead slug. He bit into it, drawing blood.

The other monster—the tall, white, blurry creature—he was growling at the little demon. The Sniper shivered. This was worse than any fever. He could feel his blood race like hot rivers under trembling skin. His intestines knotted and tangled. Cognitive thought was lost to the nightmares holding him hostage. He felt like a weak, feeble fool. He didn’t want his teammates to see him like this. Not like a child.

Warm air hung like swampy humidity in his ear. Words came through, echoing but clear enough. “Mundy! C’mon. Settle down.”

“T-T-T-T—” The Sniper’s tongue clicked uselessly against his teeth. “I-I—”

Thick muscles wrapped around his neck. So, this was it. Strangulation. He gave another cry. Hands rested on the back of his head. He thought of his mother, so far away, her warm embrace and soft arms lost to time and space. His father’s glare pierced through, eternal in its judgment. Weak boy. Useless boy. Ducts he thought had long since gone dry welled up and spilled out boiling tears.

He babbled mindlessly. “Mum. Mum. Dad. I—so—I—”

Clear, sharp bells pierced his brain. “You’re safe. It’s okay.”

It was a lie. It had to be a lie. The Sniper fell for it. He wanted to be saved. He wanted his parents’ affection. He needed strength and security, freedom to run, to be healthy and see clearly. He was such a selfish, sick little man, and he wanted to be rid of himself. He shook, waiting for the arms around his neck to crush his trachea.

The hands behind his head stroked his hair. “’M sorry. ‘M so sorry. Shouldn’t—shouldn’t have left you alone.”

Knives tore at the Sniper’s side. He shuddered from imaginary pain. “I—the—Spy…Other…He—”

The Sniper’s eyes flashed open. His brain retrieved the memory it had lost in the blazing heat of his sickness. A syringe was dug into his side. Its contents flowed through him like poison. He saw a gloved hand, a suit jacket, a sneer. He remembered falling through his nest, tumbling to the water pooled below. There had been such a sharp smack. It had been like hitting concrete. Sharks and abyssal things tore at his flesh. Creatures snatched at his clothes, ripped buttons from his shirt. There had been fire and screaming, too. Hell, perhaps.

He couldn’t have fallen that far.

“—ink he’s clearing—” the white thing said. “Powerful hallucin—”

His hearing was failing again. The Sniper clung to his boiling consciousness. “Keep…talk…”

The arms around him squeezed tighter. “We’re here, Stretch. Just hold on.”

“Scared,” the Sniper confessed. His body was growing heavy. He felt like he was sinking through whatever piece of furniture was beneath him. “Tired.”

“Should he sleep?” the low voice asked. His question was answered by a strange throbbing tremor from the white man. “Okay. It’s alright. Relax.”

Of all the things the Sniper had fallen into and out of, the arms around his neck were as good as any bed. He dropped his head. His shame was still there, poking and chittering at his weary body. He didn’t care. He was a man of pride, yes. But, he was also a man of improvisation and opportunity. Those two weighed against his draining consciousness. If he was wrong and the enemy had him captive, they couldn’t torture him while he slept. They wouldn’t get a word of information out of him.

He was a fool and an ass, but he accepted it. He let his failing body surrender.

He woke up in the Engineer’s arms, right and whole, and fell again.


	18. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's one more December 21st, 2013 Anonymous Tumblr prompt for the road.

This war had given him definition. In a world full of people, men and women that smeared together in a continuum of browns and creams, he had just been another person. A little bit deranged, certainly. One didn’t attract the attentions of the Mann brothers if they didn’t have just a spark of violence to them. But, he had just been another face in the crowd. He had not polished himself, nor had others hewed him. He just was.

Now, it was different. He was a force of nature—a true element, not just a mouthy kid spouting off. He was more secretive than the Spy, his face hidden behind his suit. He was feared because he had no shape. He spoke through his body, his grunts, his gleeful squeals of delight. The roar of his flamethrower was the greatest arguer. It often spoke in his favor.

He hoped it would never end. He hoped his friends would never figure him out. He didn’t want to go back into his old life, bland and dull and burned out. His mystique was his charm. His lack of form was his form. To have any trait assigned to him again would strip him of that.

He was a warrior. He set things on fire.

That was good enough.


	19. Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JeannetteGray submitted this request to Tumblr on December 28th, 2012.

His jaw nearly dropped off his face.

There it was, a dazzling white streak across the dark blue skies. His first shooting star. He wasn’t ever one to contemplate what was going on in the sky. After all, that was something that only nerdy guys and desperate love-struck princesses did. All he knew about space was what he saw on TV. Coming face to face with this phenomenon drilled through his crusty exterior and hit him right in his childish heart.

The Scout bolted back to the base as soon as possible. There was one man that could appreciate this site as much he did. He made for the garage, knocking over buckets and mops lying in his path. Doves flew off in a panic. He smashed the door to the garage back.

“I saw it! I can’t believe it!” the Scout shouted.

The Engineer jumped in his seat. He knocked over his pencils, sending them spilling from a repurposed coffee mug onto the floor. Grunting, he asked, “Ya saw what?”

The Scout bounded over to him. “A shooting star, man!”

“Good for you, kid!” The Engineer patted the Scout on the back. “Did ya make a wish?”

The Scout stopped. “Aw, crap.”


End file.
